Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me.

Different people remember things differently, and you'll not get any two people to remember anything the same, whether they were there or not.

I remembered that, and, remembering that, I remembered everything.

Memory is the great deceiver. Perhaps there are some individuals whose memories act like tape recordings, daily records of their lives complete in every detail, but I am not one of them. My memory is a patchwork of occurrences, of discontinuous events roughly sewn together: The parts I remember, I remember precisely, whilst other sections seemed to have vanished completely.

Dreams are composed of many things, my son. Of images and hopes, of fears and memories. Memories of the past, and memories of the future...

I remember making that vow, the one not to forget. Not to remember what happened, but to remember who I was and how I felt.